“An’ it please you, sir, a serving man.”
“A serving man! Whom do you serve—eh?”
“The worshipful Sir Francis Hartleton, hard by.”
“Take that then,” said Britton, flinging a pewter measure at the poor fellow’s head, which luckily missed him; “how dare you come here, you sneaking spy?”
The man made a precipitate retreat, and when the landlord came with a steaming bowl of punch, Britton with an oath exclaimed,—
“Haven’t I told you that I would have none of that Hartleton’s people here?”
“Your majesty certainly was so gracious as to say so, but he, whom your grace has so very judiciously turned out, tells me he has only been for a day in his service, so, your highness, I knew him not as he passed in.”
“Sharpen your wits, then,” said Britton, throwing the remnants of the butcher’s flagon of strong ale in the landlord’s face.
“Oh, what a wit he has!”
“Curse Hartleton—curse him!” growled Britton.